A Question of the Truth
by writertron
Summary: because for someone dealing with spies and criminals on a personal basis, Alex is really quite naive. The world is not black and white, and sometimes even shades of grey are irrelevant. ONESHOT


_**AN:** this is not part of my fem!Alex series: sorry if that disappoints anyone hoping for a new instalment. Also, I disclaim.  
_

Alex stared numbly across the shadowed sea of faces, limping badly as he was led across the stage by a rope secured to his bound hands. How the hell had this happened? MI6 had lied again – he refused to believe that they had made such gaping mistakes in their intelligence _every single time_ – and now he was stripped naked, a number branded into the sole of his foot, being paraded as a slave in a nominally secret auction somewhere in South America. He said nominally, because he was sure he had seen police uniforms adorning some of the bidders. Parts of his sales description reached his ears, the auctioneer announcing in Spanish.

"…Sixteen… British… some scars, a bit wild, but" – the leer was audible – "_untouched."_ The bidders roared in approval and the price shot up. Alex wondered if he was going to throw up. His eyes searched the crowd desperately, looking for anything, anyone who might help him, but all he could see was greed, lust…

The man leading him tugged unexpectedly and Alex stumbled, landing heavily on the weeping burn on his right foot, agony shooting through him, making his head swim, darkness eating at the edges of his vision. He was pulled offstage, pushed to the ground by a wall, the lead rope fastened to a ring in the floor, aware of other people in similar positions nearby. Through the ringing in his ears, he could still hear the noise of the bidders, his price going up and up and up…

A single gunshot. Silence. A lone voice, ringing out clearly, naming a ridiculous amount. The rap of the auctioneer's hammer descending like a death knell…

Alex gave a single, tiny sob, and let the darkness take him.

* * *

The merchandise was being taken away now, the auction workers bringing it out item by item to each buyer. Luis, the head auctioneer, as was his habit – it paid to make good business – was dealing with the highest paying customer himself. The man was not a stranger to him, but it was the first time he was purchasing on his own behalf, rather than buying or selling as a middleman for others.

A worker came up and murmured in his ear as he made small talk, aware of his customer's impatience and keeping it simple, unassuming and relevant. Too many men in his business lost their lives by making insinuations that were not wanted. "I hope you will be satisfied with your merchandise…" Luis trailed off and frowned slightly as he heard what the worker had to say. Things like this were common enough, but he always felt nervous when relaying such information to men as dangerous as this customer. "He's passed out," Luis stated after a pause, deciding to be blunt. This customer responded better to honesty, and it was now his prerogative to dictate what happened to the merchandise. "You want us to wake him?"

The customer shook his head, emotionless. "Take me to him."

Luis obeyed without a murmur, leading the taller man backstage, directly to where the item in question was huddled on the bare floorboards. The customer grunted, crouching next to the unconscious body, gaze lingering on the weeping brand exposed on a foot, examining him up close without touching. He indicated a dark bruise on the left shoulder blade, glancing up at Luis enquiringly.

Luis shrugged. "He fought hard."

The customer smirked wordlessly, straightening enough to remove the shirt he was wearing open over his t-shirt and sliding it onto the naked body, releasing the boy's wrists long enough to get it on before binding them back together. The shirt was several sizes too big, effectively hiding the boy's nudity.

Luis stepped back, trying not to stare, as the man looped his new property's bound hands around his neck and scooped the unconscious body up, cradling it in his arms. "I trust the rest of the payment will be made in the usual way?" The customer had already made a sizeable cash deposit.

"Expect it within twenty-four hours," was his reply, and the customer was gone.

Luis thought again of the amount that single sale had made and had to hold back a childish whoop. His business had always been profitable, but this…

He could only remind himself to award a generous bonus to whoever had brought in that British boy.

* * *

Alex came to slowly, hearing tyres scrunching against gravel and feeling the vehicle he must be in come to a halt, the engine cutting out. His head felt thick and stuffy, his foot throbbing painfully, and all he could think about was the sickening knowledge that someone had bought him. A door opened and shut nearby, then another opened, nearer. He heard movement, freezing painfully still as arms slid under his knees and around his shoulders, lifting him up into the humid night air. He cracked open his eyes, but all he could make out was the darker shadow in the darkness that was his new owner's face as the man carried him easily.

The faintest of breezes caressed his wounded foot and he choked on a cry as unexpected agony shot up his leg to spear his brain. His owner stopped walking and Alex panicked, babbling apologies, just about remembering to speak in Spanish. He couldn't deal with this, had no idea how to react to the situation, no idea how his owner would respond, and he didn't want to be a slave, didn't know what his owner intended to use him for…

"Hush, little one," a quiet voice soothed, also in Spanish. The man continued walking. "Go back to sleep. You are safe now." They went up several steps, and the man shifted him slightly to free a hand, opening a door and entering a building. He didn't turn on any lights, moving surely through the dark hallway.

Alex desperately wanted to believe him, but he remembered the greed and lust on the faces in the auction hall, and the terror wouldn't leave him. They went through another door, and he felt himself being lowered to a soft surface: a bed. "Please…" he begged, sick with fear. "Please don't… please…"

"Shh." Fingers carded through his hair. "I have no sexual interest in you, little one." Alex was astonished to find that he believed him this time, beginning to calm down. "You are ill," his owner informed him. Alex agreed that this was likely to be true. "Go back to sleep."

Alex obeyed.

* * *

When he was aware again, it was morning, sunlight muted by net curtains falling into the room. Deft fingers were examining the brand on his foot, gently cleaning the burns, a new dressing lying on the bed within easy reach.

Alex focussed on the man sitting on his mattress, attending to the injury. White-blond hair, a ruler-straight scar across his neck, ice-blue eyes glancing in his direction…

"You're alive," Alex croaked. It somehow needed to be said. He hadn't seen the assassin since Air Force One, only hearing faint rumours that he wasn't as dead as MI6 was making him out to be.

Yassen Gregorovich smirked in response. "So are you," he replied. Alex blinked slowly, dazedly, and the assassin chuckled. "Go back to sleep, little Alex. You are safe enough here."

The teenager blinked again, eyelids drifting closed against his will as his mind strained to work out what was going on. "You… bought me?"

"I did," the Russian affirmed, lifting the dressing and positioning it over the line of numbers, securing it with practised ease. "You are lucky I was there. I do not think Luis has made so much from a single transaction in his life."

Alex's heart sank at the reminder. "So… I'm your…" – he hesitated, searching for the right word – "property?"

Yassen laughed softly. "Of course not." Alex frowned in confusion, but the man was standing up. "Go back to sleep, Alex. We can discuss this when you are well."

Alex wanted to protest, but Yassen had left the room and his thoughts were becoming sluggish. Pouting slightly, he turned onto his side and went back to sleep.

* * *

It was morning again. Alex frowned at the ceiling. How long had he been asleep? Stretching carefully, testing his body for any unexpected aches or pains, he took in his surroundings. The room was gender-neutral, containing only a bed, desk, chair and wardrobe. Yassen was nowhere to be seen.

He tossed the thin covers back, grimacing at the sticky feel of his skin. He needed to wash. Glancing down at himself, he blinked in surprise at the unfamiliar shirt. Where had that come from?

"The bathroom is at the end of the hall." Alex started badly at the sound of Yassen's voice from the doorway, and looked up, shooting him a glare. The assassin grinned. The teenager tried not to display his utter fascination at the sight of the expression: the assassin could grin? "There's a change of clothes on the counter in there for you. Can you walk?"

Alex hesitated before replying, finally choosing to try to cover his unease with assumed light-heartedness. "Only one way to find out," he replied, gingerly levering himself upright. Yassen backed up out of his way as the teenager progressed down the hall, limping painfully.

"Yell if you find yourself in need of assistance."

By the time Alex had managed to process the instruction, the assassin was gone again. He stared at the empty hall for a long moment, but the shower was calling to him and he was loath to resist any longer.

"Bloody assassin," he mumbled, and quickly shut the door. He could try to make sense of the world again when he was clean.

* * *

"So…" Alex stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, hair damp from the shower, feeling far more alert.

Yassen glanced up from the table, where he was looking at something on a laptop. "Sit. Eat." He waved a hand at an empty seat, which had a bowl of diced fruit and several slices of bread set.

Uneasily, Alex slunk across to the indicated chair and perched on it, staring at the food, very aware of his proximity to the assassin, but Yassen wasn't paying him much attention and his stomach was clenching in hunger. Cautiously, keeping an eye on the older man, he picked up the fork and speared a piece of melon.

He was nibbling at a slice of bread when Yassen finally broke the silence. "It has been five days since the auction. I am not certain that your employers have even yet noticed that you are missing." His tone was disapproving, and Alex couldn't help but silently agree with the sentiment. Sometimes he wondered if MI6 was _trying_ to get him killed: they were certainly lax enough. "You will not be returning to England until I can take you there myself."

Alex almost choked on his mouthful of bread, swallowing hastily and staring across at the assassin incredulously. _"What?"_

Yassen looked back at him, faintly amused. "I very much doubt you will succeed in getting out the country without me." Seeing the teenager's incomprehension, he elaborated. "The slavery ring has many people in many places: they will have your face and number on record, and if they see you, they will return you to me." He suddenly smirked, turning back to his laptop. "Their customer service is exemplary."

Alex stared at him, horrified to realise that he found the comment funny. Hastily, he scrambled to cover his reaction. "Why did you buy me?" he blurted, wincing as soon as he realised what he had said. Yassen paused, then lifted a hand and closed the laptop, turning to face the teenager with an eyebrow raised, and Alex began to babble, looking away and reaching for his fork in an attempt to disguise the surge of nervousness that shot through him in response to gaining the assassin's full attention. "I mean… it was a lot of money and…"

The Russian cut in. "My job pays very well, Alex."

The teenager apparently didn't notice his response, still rambling. "… not like he even…" Suddenly, he dropped the fork, freezing. The implement clattered noisily onto his plate. Yassen didn't know. _He didn't know._ Yassen had saved him because he was John Rider's son, but John Rider…

Yassen's other eyebrow rose to join the first as he saw how pale the teenager had suddenly gone. "Alex?"

Alex scrambled to his feet. "You don't know." He was staring like he had never seen the Russian before.

Yassen placed his elbows on the table, folding his hands together and resting his chin on them. "What don't I know?" he enquired patiently.

The teenager bit his lip. "I… they…" He looked genuinely afraid, like he thought the assassin might shoot him at any moment. "You won't like it." Alex bit down harder, tasting blood. "You'll regret saving me."

His ice-blue eyes were faintly amused. "Alex, if it is something you believe will make me dislike you, surely it would be wiser to wait until your life is not dependant on me?"

Alex shook his head violently, pacing with a somewhat painful gait back and forth in the space between the table and the opposite wall, one hand tangled in the hair at the base of his skull, tugging on it as he fought to keep his thoughts in order. "No, it's got to be said," he insisted. "It's not right that you think… when... It's not right!"

The assassin laughed softly. "Your morals are admirable. It is rare to meet someone so focussed on what is "right"."

The teenager shot him a sour glare, unsure if he was being mocked, his hand dropping from his hair to pick at a belt loop on his jeans. "I can't let you keep saving my life when…" He hesitated momentarily, eyeing the assassin again, wondering if it wouldn't be better to take the man's advice and say this when he had an escape route handy and wasn't liable to be dragged back here by the police themselves.

Yassen got to his feet and was standing over Alex so fast the teenager didn't register the movement. "When what, _bratik_?" The question was gentle.

Alex's heart leapt into his throat and the words spilled from his mouth. "Dad was a double agent!" he blurted, instantly cringing away, dropping his gaze and waiting for the fury, heart thundering. Yassen had saved him so many times in the name of John Rider, and John had been a traitor…

A soft sound reached his ears and he blinked, daring to look up, disbelieving. Yassen's eyes were bright with amusement, lips twisted into a smirk as he tried and failed to restrain laughter. "I'm being serious!" he blurted, hurt that the assassin wasn't taking him seriously. "He…"

"For who?" Yassen interrupted.

Alex paused and eyed him warily. This reaction wasn't _right_, and he had no idea how to react. "MI6: I found out after everything with SCORPIA…" he revealed hesitantly.

The smirk unfolded into a razor-edged grin. "And who told you this, Alex?"

He paused again. "MI6?" It came out slow and uncertain, a glint in the assassin's eye making him suddenly doubt everything.

He jumped, startled, as a warm, firm hand landed on his shoulder, looking up into laughing blue eyes. "And you believed them?"

* * *

They sat together on the shaded veranda, Alex unable to keep his eyes off the older man, silently begging for an explanation. Inexplicably, he felt hurt by the revelation that MI6 might have lied, and he was angry that he was taken so off guard by the suggestion. MI6 had been ruthlessly manipulating every aspect of his life for two years, sending him alone into increasingly dangerous situations, was an organisation built on secrets and lies: the more he thought about it, the angrier he was at himself for never having thought of the possibility before.

He began simply. "As I'm sure you have realised now, the first point to make is that MI6 had much to gain by persuading you to remain loyal to them."

It was a gentle admonition of his naïveté. Alex tried not to flinch. "So they lied?"

Yassen sighed. "Perhaps. Alex, I do not have all the answers you may be looking for."

Alex frowned, opening his mouth, but the assassin raised a hand to quiet him and he settled back into attentive silence. "In fact, the most important thing for you to understand is that no one does. Consider, Alex" – he sat forward, eyes pinning the teenager in place – "the impossibility of ever truly knowing what anyone's intentions are." Alex's eyes widened slightly as that statement sank in. "Your father, John Rider, worked as a spy for MI6. He also worked as a teacher and assassin for SCORPIA. Did his true loyalties lie on one side, or the other? Or" – he shrugged – "perhaps they laid in another place altogether?"

Silence. Then: "MI6 said they faked most of his kills," Alex croaked. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Yassen laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head. "That would have been an appalling waste of their resources."

"But…"

"Nobody knows, Alex," he repeated, with finality. "He could have made those kills and still been MI6's best undercover agent. _Nobody knows._"

Alex wilted. He knew he shouldn't be surprised by the idea that MI6 would allow – even order – assassinations. And yet…

Yassen looked across at him, seeing his drooping shoulders, and softened. "Is it truly important that you know?" he asked gently.

When Alex spoke, his voice was thick with misery. "He's the reason I defected to SCORPIA. He was the reason I turned back to MI6. I…" He trailed off.

"We are not our fathers, _bratik_." A sudden smile quirked his lips. "Or I would be a biochemical engineer."

Alex shook his head, abruptly turning to meet the assassin's gaze, brown eyes burning in confusion. "But you were the one who told me to go to SCORPIA!" he protested, not without anger. "You said it was my destiny!"

He stared in confusion as the Russian blushed slightly, not meeting his eyes for a moment. "It has often been remarked that I become somewhat melodramatic when I am in pain." The teenager gaped. Yassen cleared his throat and hastily moved on. "I wanted you to go to SCORPIA because I believed that they would tell you the truth. I had forgotten how… _unhinged_ Julia Rothman had become over the issue. She was always a little too blind in matters of loyalty." The ice-blue eyes were earnest. "It was stupid of me. I will not make such an oversight again."

Was Yassen _apologising?_ Alex nodded dumbly, and the man smiled. Alex looked away at the view for a long moment, trying to process everything he had been told. "So… you don't _care_ that John Rider might have been an MI6 agent all along?" he asked at last, looking back to watch his expression.

Yassen met his gaze openly. "I do not care," he stated simply. "John Rider picked me up off the streets of Moscow when I was facing a fate not unlike yours if I had not been at the auction." Alex shivered at the reminder and was pathetically grateful that the Russian hadn't been any more explicit about that fate. "He taught me how to survive in an organisation that would kill me if I stepped in the wrong direction." A hand unconsciously brushed across the scar on his throat. "He saved my life, Alex, when I fully expected him not even consider it. These things are unassailable facts."

Alex stared. Finally, wordlessly, he nodded. There wasn't really anything to say. Except, maybe: "What does "brahteek" mean?" He stumbled slightly over the pronunciation.

Yassen went very still. ""_Bratik_"," he corrected softly. He hadn't realised he had said it out loud. "It's Russian. It means…" He trailed into silence for a long moment, aware of Alex looking up at him quietly, expectantly.

He gave the teenager a brief smile, trying not to let his faint unease show. "It means "little brother"."

His arms were suddenly full of impulsive teenager, and he relaxed.

**_AN:_**_ this satisfies a couple of hangups I have about the series, Scorpia in particular. Because, Alex, you are far too trusting. Taking a criminal organisation at their word? Accepting MI6's story when they already had to change it once? Why oh why would you ever take anything they said at face value ever again? Especially when, y'know, they desperately needed your loyalty back to prevent millions of deaths? That's not even a **hidden** agenda._


End file.
